


athair ar neamh

by LoversAntiquities



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, foot washing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-17
Updated: 2018-04-17
Packaged: 2019-04-24 09:58:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14353134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: Castiel is a mess. That’s a nice way to put it, at least, based on how bloody he is, sitting atop a shoddy toilet with his arms wrapped around his middle, trying to protect his wounds from the cold air pouring in through the vent above the door. Despite the heat and humidity stagnating their motel room, Castiel shivers near-violently, teeth rattling, hands trembling. Shock, most likely—after what he’s been through, Dean wouldn’t expect any less.





	athair ar neamh

Castiel is a mess. That’s a nice way to put it, at least, based on how bloody he is, sitting atop a shoddy toilet with his arms wrapped around his middle, trying to protect his wounds from the cold air pouring in through the vent above the door. Despite the heat and humidity stagnating their motel room, Castiel shivers near-violently, teeth rattling, hands trembling. Shock, most likely—after what he’s been through, Dean wouldn’t expect any less.

“You’re gonna have to turn to me,” Dean tells Castiel from the sink, pushing down the plunger and letting the water collect in the basin. He wets a washcloth and faces Castiel, who refuses to look at Dean, his attention raptly focused on the floorboards. “Cas, c’mon…”

Castiel shakes his head vehemently, knuckles blanched at his sides. Too close of a call; Dean has been there. But Dean has always accepted help, even if it was hours after the incident took place. Now, it’s been roughly an hour and twenty-three minutes, and Castiel has refused every bit of help Dean could offer, from water to pain medication, to even wiping the blood from his face, washing it from his hair. For all Dean knows, Castiel is still bleeding, but to what extent, Dean can only guess.

“I’m not having you die because you’re being a dumbass,” Dean grouses and shuts off the faucet.  

Sitting on the edge of the tub, Dean winces at the pull in his thigh, from a gash he’s already sewn up as best he can. A few days, and it’ll hopefully close enough to begin to scar over; the older he gets, the slower his recovery time grows, and it’ll only be a few more years before his body gives up entirely and just bleeds dry over a papercut. Honestly, he isn’t looking forward to old age, not at the rate he’s going.

One thing he knows how to do, though, is tend to wounds, his own and others. Castiel’s left hand comes free with coaxing, and only then does Dean realize the extent of Castiel’s injuries. A slice decorates the space between two ribs, not exactly splitting him open, but enough to leave a nasty scar once it heals. One of the gifts of humanity—battle wounds. From what he can tell, it isn’t bleeding, so long as Castiel doesn’t dig his fingers into it any more than he already has.

One by one, Dean uncurls Castiel’s clenched fingers, wiping each down with the rag until they come away clean, pink skin only pink from exertion. After that, Dean cradles Castiel’s wrist in hand and massages his palm in concentric circles, giving Castiel something to ground himself to. “It’s not your fault,” Dean rumbles. Sweat beads from his nape, disappearing into the collar of his shirt. Under his fingertips, Castiel’s wrist is frail, his pulse a rapid, throbbing rhythm. “I saw it coming, but I didn’t warn you in time. I—I panicked.”

He stops. Swallows. “I should’ve never let you out of my sight, alright?” Gently, he guides the rag up, revealing pristine skin underneath layers of caked-on red. “If anything, blame me. Hate me all you want, I don’t care, but I’d drag you out of that nest a thousand more times if it meant keeping you alive.”

Castiel doesn’t answer; Dean doesn’t expect him to, just keeps cleaning the bare expanse of Castiel’s arm, up and over his shoulder. He doesn’t venture near the wounds on his torso yet; those, he can tend to when Castiel’s heart isn’t threatening to seize and his leg stops bouncing. He stops long enough to wring out the rag in the sink before wiping down Castiel’s right arm; this one took the brunt of the attack, claw marks tracking up the underside of his forearm, ripping gouges into his wrist. These too will heal, with time.

“You don’t gotta talk,” Dean continues, talking mostly just to be talking. Conversation always helps to ease his nerves. Debriefing, Sam calls it; to Dean, it’s just a quiet distraction. “I know you’re hurting, but I’m here, alright?” Above him, Castiel lets out a long, low groan, resonating from deep in his chest. That’s good—he can feel pain, and he can vocalize that pain. “I ever tell you about that time me and Sam went to the Grand Canyon?”

Dean talks, and Castiel listens. At least, he hopes Castiel is listening. In increments, Castiel begins to loosen, the steady thump of his heel hitting the tile slowing to a dull thud. Meanwhile, Dean cleans Castiel’s chest with too much water, allowing it to flow into the waistband of Castiel’s boxers, white beginning to run red. Castiel hisses when Dean ventures too close, and Dean offers him the whiskey in his flask to calm him, to ease the adrenaline no doubt beginning to wane. His sewing supplies sit in the box beside the tub; Dean leaves them be.

It’s not until he reaches Castiel’s legs that Dean realizes that Castiel is watching him, blue eyes beginning to sag. “You still with me?” Dean asks, seating himself between Castiel’s parted calves. Slowly, for the first time in hours, Castiel nods.

“You scared the shit outta me,” Dean begins again, propping Castiel’s foot up on his thigh. His legs are dirty, but not as much as the rest of him, blood clinging to dark hairs rather than skin. Under his breath, Dean chuckles, shaking his head. Castiel wiggles his toes weakly, his hands coming to rest in his lap. “Saw you on that warehouse floor, and… I freaked. ‘Cause I watched them grab you, and I thought, this is it.”

He stops, blinks away the sudden wetness from his eyes; a drop splatters atop Castiel’s foot, and Dean wipes it away with the rag, beginning to clean between his toes. Castiel’s inhale doesn’t go unnoticed; Dean elects to ignore it, though, massaging the meat of his foot through the rag. “I don’t know how much more of this I can take. I keep having… nightmares, about this kinda thing. ‘Cept, I watch you die, every time. I’ve watched you so many times, that… I thought I was gonna wake up.”

A laugh. Dean scrubs Castiel’s foot, just to do something with his hands. “I thought it was a dream, but then one of them got me, and then…” He stops, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. “Doesn’t matter. Just forget it.”

“Dean,” Castiel rasps. Dean looks up, wary, to see Castiel watching him, eyes wide and verging on bloodshot. A hand comes to rest on Dean’s head, shivering fingers raking through his hair, gentle enough to be a whisper. This, Dean isn’t familiar with. Reassurances, a need for guidance. A plea for help.

“I’m here,” Dean promises. He leans forward enough to rest his forehead against Castiel’s knee, just breathing there, letting Castiel hold him. Quietly, Castiel lets out a broken noise, one Dean drinks in, letting it sink into his gut. He’ll feel guilty about taking his time later, but for now, he leans back and washes Castiel’s other foot, holding both in his lap. “I got you.”

Castiel’s silence is deafening; Dean can’t help but listen, especially when Castiel begins to speak, throat thick with snot and blood and god knows what else. “You think I’m worth it,” he says, slow. For emphasis, Castiel curls his toes on both feet. “After everything I’ve done…”

 _It’s not like that_ , Dean could say. This is just perfunctory, a winddown from a hard fought battle. Not some… biblical ritual, older than Dean can even fathom. But Castiel has never seen anything Dean has ever done as without meaning, and Dean is beginning to believe that everything has a purpose. For some reason, Dean was born onto this earth, into this life, and Castiel fell into his orbit without rhyme or reason, and stayed.

His Grace may be a figment now, but Castiel is still here, alive and breathing, and bleeding from wounds Dean knows how to deal with. Castiel, Dean knows how to tend to, how to worship, how to love.

“You’re worthy,” Dean echoes, the rag in his grip gone cold, stained red from edge to edge.

He bows his head between Castiel’s knees, and allows Castiel to cover his ears, thumbs pressed over his eyes, stealing his vision. Castiel kisses him with a hiss, his wounds probably reopening with the strain; regardless, Dean opens his mouth to him, wet hands coming to rest on either side of Castiel’s face. And all too soon, Castiel pulls back, brow furrowed and breath coming in hot pants against Dean’s lips. “It hurts,” he admits— _finally_.

“Drink, then.” Dean tilts his head to the flask sitting on the sink. “I’ll fix it.”

**Author's Note:**

> I finished my DeanCas Reverse Bang, so I treated myself with SAD. I hope you enjoy! Back to working on my DCBB!
> 
> Title is from the Enya song.
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/loversantiquities).


End file.
